A Page of Doodles
by Mizily
Summary: A lifetime of memories captured in a sheet of scribbles, because they never really did grow up. PhineasxIsabella.


**A Page of Doodles.**

* * *

The silver frost has settled, pale and glittering thinly on the ground, and all is still; but inside, a fire crackles warmly, spewing sparks that fizzle out listlessly before they hit the floor. Phineas Flynn sits over his desk, a pencil flying furiously over paper. He hasn't even noticed his wife and the tray of steaming food she's carrying, leaning against the doorway of the study watching him with a wistful look in her eyes.

Phineas is completely and utterly immersed in his art, his brows creased in careful concentration. Spectacles balance on the bridge of his pointed nose, precariously close to slipping off. There are faint wrinkles on his forehead, and laugh lines created by years full of joyful moments and carefree grins. He is no longer young.

Isabella knows this, but she cannot help but see the young spirit with the big ideas that she first fell in love with. The same spirit that could soar when it unfolded its mighty wings. It had been her greatest fear, occasionally resurfacing on lonely days, that she might one day lose sight of him. For, after all, who could cage a bird so beautiful?

She takes careful steps towards him, calling softly. He turns around immediately at the sound of her voice, the brightest of smiles lighting up his face. As she sets down dinner, he shows her proudly the fruit of his labour- another grand invention that would no doubt make the headlines once he and his brother had made it a reality.

Isabella could cry. She remembers summers long ago, when his backyard had been her haven, and they had spent every hazy, happy day doing something new and original and completely fantastic. She traces his creased forehead gently with a thumb, running along every line as if recalling another memory, then lets her hand trail down his face. Tells him he needs to eat; needs to keep his energy up if they were to visit England to see Ferb in the morning. He laughs, of course he knows this, thanks very much for the food, you're the best, Isabella.

No, Phineas, you are. The same admiring thought that's never left her mind since childhood. She tells him not to let the food get cold, and makes to leave.

He catches her arm, pulls up a chair with a foot as he offers her a pencil. She sits down and takes the pencil in her hand obligingly on seeing the inviting smile on his face.

She frowns, because they both know that she can't draw. But regardless, he rolls up his new invention and replaces the space with a new, blank sheet of paper.

He begins to scribble, little designs of flowers that he knows she loves, that one little restaurant in Paris that they'd spend hours chatting away in, the two of them parachuting when they had taken lessons a few months ago. There's one particularly beautiful drawing of her, and himself, ballroom dancing, hands intertwined.

Isabella looks down at her aged hands, scrutinising the worn, frail fingers. She's not nearly as gorgeous as she looks in this picture. She takes her pencil and mars the image by tracing fine lines into her face, wrinkles and rimples, for she knows that she is no longer young either. Phineas smiles, claiming that she has only made herself look even more beautiful.

She inhales deeply, unable to believe what an angel countless prayers had brought her, and sketches a picture of the two boys she knew so well, sitting in the backyard under the shade of a big tree. It's crudely drawn, but she can't help but smile at the grin that she had brought to Phineas' face.

And she draws more. A rainbow, stretching across the white paper sky. A haunted house. A rollercoaster, and she giggles childishly as she draws in the terrified expressions of all involved as they pass through a ring of leaping flames. Phineas adds in a tiny Irving into the corner, taking photos, and chuckles as he meets his wife's mirthful eyes.

She draws Perry, and Pinky, and her fireside girl troop holding their sashes proudly, while Phineas sketches Buford, giving Baljeet a massive wedgie in the background. Ferb is next, with his trusty screwdriver and wrench, and the tiniest of rare smiles on his face, the one that only surfaces on a good day when he's surrounded by all the people that he loves, when he thinks that no-one's looking. Candace is next to Ferb, texting furiously to Jeremy, or Stacy, or perhaps their mother to bust them.

The page quickly fills up with moments in time, captured in graphite markings on the paper: their wedding, the nights spent singing away together, the evening they were caught in the brutal snowstorm and had to huddle together to survive. Their first house which was tiny and cramped with an overgrown garden but they loved anyway.

Then they bring their pencils together and let them travel freely over the paper. What's left standing is a beautiful little girl, with her mother's curious blue eyes and her father's messy fiery hair and the sunny, warm grin that she's inherited from both of them.

Phineas and Isabella's gazes skim over a lifetime of irreplaceable memories, then both rise to meet each other's. They've never seen anything more wonderful.

He whispers that he will do anything to make her happy, anything at all. She need only ask, and he would do everything to make it a reality.

Isabella shakily raises her pencil once more, and draws one final picture in the remaining white space.

Old and frail, they sit side by side, her wrinkled old hand clasped in his. There is a wide, bright smile on both their aged faces, and they look out into the vast open sky where birds still soar.

Phineas lets the same wide, bright smile crack over his face, and instantly, she believes in him, without a trace of doubt, because Phineas Flynn can do anything.

He leads her by the hand towards the warm fire, whilst supper lies cold on the table.


End file.
